Lyndon Hardy - Secret Of The Sixth Magic

The sorcerer closed his eyes and ran his tongue across his lips, savoring the memories. For a moment there was silence, but then Farnel snapped back and waved the thoughts away. "But they won no prizes. The drift to shallow forms and empty expression had already begun."

"I know also of what the others said of your works," Jemidon rushed on. "Bold in principle and mood, but flawed in historical or geographic fact. Incorrect costuming of the period, a jutting sandbar in the wrong place, reflections from an impossible direction."

"Excuses, all of them," Farnel said. "The works of Gerilac were the new sensation in the eyes of the prince."

''But had yours not been built on error, what then?" Jemidon persisted. "Without the nagging irritants, how might the artistic education of the high prince have proceeded? And who now might wear the robe of velvet?"

"Your tongue is glib. I grant you that," Farnel said, "but the sands have already been cast. What is done is done. It is a matter of style, and our craft suffers because of it."

"I am a scholar," Jemidon said. "Between my attempts for what I must achieve, I have earned my bread in the libraries of the lords and the great cities, reading the old scrolls, tracking down obscure facts, finding the answer to ancient riddles so that one baron can show the power of his intellect to another. And in the course of all of this, I have learned many things that can serve you well."

Jemidon paused for a moment, then rushed on. "Two centuries ago, the capes of the lords hung only to their waists and their faces were clean-shaven. The sandbar in the Bay of Cloves is covered by the high tide. In the morning, when one is looking down into the valley beyond Plowblade Pass, the shadows are on the left."

Farnel looked at Jemidon in silence for a long while. He ran his hand over the back of his neck but said nothing.

"Knowledge," Jemidon said, breaking the silence at last. "Knowledge to remove the inconsistencies from your works, the imperfections that seem to bother the other masters so. All that I have learned in my wanderings I will share." He touched the coin on his chest. "That and one brandel more if you take me as your tyro and lead me to mastership of sorcery."

"And so it is as simple as that." Farnel laughed. "But one must start with a young mind, smooth and pliable, not a mind already filled with the lessons that gave one his manhood. If you must dabble in the arts, seek some other, such as thaumaturgy. You are too old to begin any other."

"No!" Jemidon shouted. "It is to be sorcery." He stopped suddenly, embarrassed by the outburst that echoed off the stone walls. "I am aware of the difficulties," he continued after a moment in a softer tone. "That is why I have come to you. I know that none of the other masters would choose to take me because of my age. But then, none of the others might feel so keenly about winning the supreme accolade in order to reestablish the standards for the art."

"And the one gold brandel?" Farnel asked.

Jemidon breathed deeply, almost choking on the words. "It is the most important of all. You see it around my neck on a simple loop, but somehow it is more intricately intertwined with my innermost being. It is for no ordinary barter; I can give it up only when the debt it was meant for has been fully paid."

Jemidon started to say more, but the jangle of a key in the lock distracted Farnel's attention.

"Canthor, you come half a day early," the master said, rising to his feet. "I thought the penalty for wandering in the hills ran at least from sun to sun."

Jemidon slowed the rush of his thoughts and looked at the figure swinging open the grating. The bailiff wore leggings and a sleeveless tunic. The skin of his arms was smooth and taut. Short bristles of hair, struggling back from a daily shaving, covered a shiny head. Only his face showed any aging; his eyes swam in a sea of wrinkles from a perpetual squint.

"The crude pranks of Gerilac's tyros are punishment for any man." Canthor laughed. "I dare wager that this lad will no longer take our warnings so lightly. No, now is the time to depart. Before Erid and the others think of coming here and sneaking in more practice."

He waved Jemidon to the corridor with one hand and grabbed Farnel by the arm with the other. "And as for you, my rough and unbending friend, far less bother would there be for me in the first place if the masters set decent examples for the tyros to follow. Gerilac told me of what you were attempting when I was summoned."

Farnel shrugged. "If what he built had some merit, it would not matter."

"A soldier is measured by his most recent battle," Canthor said, "no matter how glorious were the ones that came before. If you wish to challenge Gerilac's ascendancy, it must be in the presentation hall, not with hot words shouted outside its walls."

"Sage advice from one who has not raised a sword in true anger in many a year!" Farnel snorted. "If that is so, why are you here instead of taking a side in the growing unrest in the northern plateau of the mainland? The high prince has need of men-at-arms."

"The difference is that I am content with my lot," Can-thor replied. "As long as there is sufficient bread on my table and pulling masters apart does not occur too often, I do not care what the others may say behind my back."

Farnel frowned and began to pace the room. "It is too late in the season," he muttered, "and for too long have I not dabbled with the themes and forms."

"Spend time in the bazaar," Canthor said. "Listen to the bondsmen prattie about their lords' latest fancies. You know that pandering to the popular tastes is how Gerilac achieves his successes. You could learn in a few nights what Gerilac guesses at for the entire year."

"Yes, yes, I have thought of that idea often enough myself. But masters do not thread their way among the hawkers and imitation delights," Farnel said. "That is a job for a tyro, and there is none who would care to accept my tutorage."

The master stopped suddenly and his eyes narrowed in thought. He looked at Jemidon and shrugged. "I suppose an alchemist would say that some of the random factors have aligned," he said. "Very well; as Canthor says, it would be better than mouthing more words of protest that the others pay attention to less and less. I accept your proposition. I will begin your instruction as you desire. In exchange, you will spend part of each day in the bazaar, befriending the bondsmen and learning the latest gossips and popularities of the mainland. We will work together for a presentation to the high prince."

Jemidon felt some of the pent-up emotion dissolve away. For once, things were going well. Perhaps this time there finally would be success. "And after the prize is awarded, how long then until I can have my own robe with the logo of the staring eye?"

Farnel placed a hand on Jemidorfs shoulder. "The agreement is that I will teach. I can promise no more. It is up to you to marshal the talents within that will make you a master."

JEMIDON slumped down on the stool in Farnel's hut. The last few months had been a blur. He had worked from sunrise far into the night, following Farnel's instruction, gathering information in the bazaar, and helping to prepare their audition. He was tired, yet at the same time mentally exhilarated. After four months, Farnel still accepted him as a tyro.

"A battle scene." Farnel shook his head as he jotted a final note and tore the full sheet from the easel. "Who would have thought that I would dabble in something so explicit and mundane?"

"But the whispers in the bazaar point consistently and clearly,"Jemidon said. "Once you piece them all together, a pattern emerges. The high prince is troubled about the unrest in the wheatlands, and the crushing of the rebellion at Plowblade Pass three generations ago would be an excellent salve."